


Dreamscape

by WhenIFindLoveAgain



Series: Dreamscape [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: British Character, British Comedy, British English, British Female Character, Character Death, Character Study, Comedy, Danish character - Freeform, Dark Comedy, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romantic Comedy, Welsh Character, irish character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenIFindLoveAgain/pseuds/WhenIFindLoveAgain
Summary: This is a collection of confessions, antics, merriment, mayhem, sensuality, bizarre sexuality, black comedy, slam poetry, and general taking-the-piss between Wales, Denmark, England, and Australia. What could possibly be better?}
Series: Dreamscape [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606906





	1. First Time Around

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if you get a couple of senetences into this an you're antsy, flick over to chapter two. There's some promise there, I promise you
> 
> Accounts are Instagram : @theartoftootimingyou  
>  Tumblr : @theartoftootimingyou

"If you're not in love with me then how come I can snap my fingers and you come running?" He texted to me. I stared down at it for a few moments. Long-distance relationship, but relationship nevertheless - I think. I could have someone else on the side and he wouldn't know about it unless I told him, and he could have someone else on the side and there's no way I would know about it unless "talking" happened. The thing is, if there was someone else, I think I'd know. I just would. And, honestly, there's a huge part of me that expects it; Even though the time difference is him being behind me one hour, it's still a few thousand mile gap. What is enough, what isn't enough...it still blows my mind that he wants to talk to me, to know me, to know what happened throughout the day and I always strive to get him to the point where he's nearly pissing himself laughing. I'm a good girlfriend - friend like that. And that's another thing. The "gf" thing must never come up, where I think, anyhow. I reckon I might jinx myself. Maybe the belief that I'll jinx myself is enough to have me jinxed - oh, shut up, shut up, shut up, here we go again, oh, piss off, piss off! I couldn't work out quite the mood with the text. I quickly went out of messages so he just wouldn't see me staring at it as I tried to figure it out; was he being teasing and flirty, or soft and sweet and musing, or was he cross about something? Did I say something on my blog that got him sitting on the numpty seat - look, I come from the land of leeks, daffodils, pagans and square sheep, it's how we talk - with a stage 9. hissy fit/man fit coming into play. Or was he wondering whether or not to break up with me, dump me - oh, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. This boy - man - guy, is giving me heart palpitations and wrinkles simultaneously, with, let's be honest, a square bit of hot flush.

  
"I don't come running." I eventually replied. That set my teeth on edge to and sent my brain on a holiday to Cyprus and gave me high blood-pressure - keeping him waiting. Urgh... "I'd have to get a couple of cabs, a plane, then a few more cabs."

  
I knew automatically once I said it - well, frankly, "You fucking idiot." echoed in the back of my skull.

  
"If you're not in love with me then how come even if you're head just turns to look at me? acknowledge me?"

  
I fell over onto my bed. Hubba fucking hubba, baby-boy!

  
This is a guy that makes me want to burst into tear and do the chumba-wumba (Welsh pub-dancing) at the same time. Snot and muck and heart palpitations with a high flourishing and going straight to my head. No one deserves to be that hot. No one deserve to be this hot. Except me and him, I think. Just us two. Us two, alone.

  
"I always thought you'd be a bit of a let-down, even..." I said aloud to myself. Suddenly, he was in my combined bedroom and studio. 

  
"Even what?" He asked me. I melted into my knickers - look, that isn't a sex reference, I'm just saying - as we do in the land of leeks, daffodils, pagans and square sheep - that I'm completely gone, completely spaced out. I've got jelloid legs, and jelloid knees so all over I'm totally jelloid - meaning "weak" - and, fuck!, he smells so good up close. He still smells like a boy, but not the rag-a-muffin sort. All cum and sweat not just from football earlier but because they're wearing the same shirt as they have for the last week. I sat up on my bed, my ankles turned in drunkenly on the floor. I looked up at him. Jesus Christ, I was totally fucked. And, actually, now he was in my room I - we - could probably do something about that...

  
"Even if you're pretty; a face like that." I told him.

  
"Ah, yeah, always my face." He mused gently, looking down at me. Goddess Arianrhod, I love his eyes. They're entrancing and deep and glowing; perfect, beautiful eyes. I could into them all day. Wouldn't get any work, cleaning, shopping, financial extortion - don't get worried, that's just what I call it when I sell a dress from my studio. I get the charge the bastard too fucking much and they pay it, and you know why? I tell them I will make them a dress or trousers or top or slip, and every-time I will charge them too much money, and they will pay it, and then they will come back to me. Australians have no balls; that shit just frightens them, even if I am a pint-sized Welsh thing. How to make money in this country, well, I've got that sorted. But, none of that would matter. He's eyes are perfect; you can see anything and everything in them. I sometimes wonder if he realizes that. I can see every part of him. I don't have any ideals or thought-of image of what he is; I know he can be an arsehole, and what he does when he feels like revenge or lashing out or generally causing a problem; I know he fucks around a bit and he's definitely ruined a few friendships and relationships by stepping over the line; lucky for him he's managed to live out a few of them. He's not just something beautiful, not something just for the collection in the jewelry box. He's a young man, with just as many faults and flaws, regrets and haunts, anger and cynical pessimism and all else that is human just like myself, and every other person on Earth. "What are you waiting for?" He asked me. 

  
"What do you mean?" I said to him. And then I realized it. Snog!

**DREAM ENDS**

Piss it, fucking bollocks, sodding bollockings, kissing bollock - sorry, what the fuck?!

  
This is getting quite consistent lately. It can only mean one thing. 

  
It's getting wors- even more profound.

  
This fact, it's incredibly detailed throughout the original works, but I've got more than one quite long-term crushes. I've got two, and I thought for a second I had a third coming up the other day.

  
Oo-er.

  
It's incredibly subtle...in the background.

  
And all through my notebooks, so, great, I suppose. 

  
I had another dream last night. I was talking to the Goddess Arianrhod last night. We were in the big drawing room of the old house in Cheshire, Wales. I was lying down on the ground, writing and thinking, and she was hovering about, her feet not quite touching the floor. Well, she wouldn't, would she? She's been dead since 1346, and even when she was born she was an embodiment of the last 4.6 billion years.

  
"Your dreams - even your dreams are not very happy? It's not like you dream sweet things - they're all cut through with reality and that til the point we're there not dreams, it's plotting and deliberating and thinking about the eventual cause/disaster/mishap/ending. just say happy ending. Think happy ending. It might come true; negative auras and negative auras and shall be treated like negative auras." She said to me. "You need to man up, go after what you want, but age is sometimes something you must wait for. It is a necessity. And you can't be a fool - no one can be a fool, but last time I had a look around, there were a horrendously decent amount of them. You can tell they're not children of mine, can't you?" She sighed, hands on her hips. "Look at that horrible little creature outside -" She pointed to the Irish gardener. "How dare red hair - a carrot top - come onto this sacred land, this sacred estate?"

  
"Well, we pay him fuck all but he doesn't seem to mind." I explained to her. All of a sudden the paper I had been writing on, there was no writing at all - I was drawing all at once Gemma Chan, a ugly old German gnome, and a cabbage patch - a garden landscape.

  
"He'd better not be Catholic." The Goddess said quite darkly. She was quite a traumatised, nasty woman when she was alive. Under all suffering we get exceptionally bitter, though, don't we? I've got my own violent tendencies, and I constantly get flashbacks to things I've done - tiny, minuscule, nanosecond ones - but it's enough to make me say, "Cunt!". I like her quite a lot, very dearly, though. I love her a great amount, honestly. Maybe I see some of myself in her, I don't know. But what I do know is what is to have a fucked-up system around you. My Dad - who is nicknamed Hitler - would get on exceptionally well with hers. Anytime a boy looks at me, Dad gets - basically, he's a boulder that whooshes up into flames. Arianrhod's Dad was quite the same; but maybe been a Welsh king and constantly been invaded by the French and Germans got on his nerves. It got on the RAF's nerves, which is why they bombed the shit out of Dresden in the 1940's. Imagine if the RAF existed back in the 1300's; we'd probably be cyborgs by now, little metal bugs in our brain that connect us to something like Adolf and Adolfa's radar on Mars.

  
"He's not anything, Goddess Arianrhod, Lady of the Wheel. We think he has a terminal cancer. But he's been up on that stuff for years." I told her. All of a sudden, I had red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Miraculuously clear skin though. Flawless, like porcelain.

  
"Oh, I see..."

  
That was that then. There's only one thing you can do to 

  
Bust a duck's nut and one of your breasts wriggling it out to "I Touch Myself" by The Divinyl's.

  
And, before you say it, I will definitely not be getting - and I do not have - a crush on Chrissie Amphlett. I just think she's cool - even if she was drug and alcohol fucked and is not six foot underground from cancer, God rest her soul.

  
Fuck, I sound Catholic for a Pagan.

  
Scrap that, scrap that.

  
May she have been buried in her minidress, garter belt and stockings. Yup, that's better.

  
Look, I know I'm doing a bit of a cheap rip-off here, but, literally, if it did come about that this boy, sorry man - look, let's just say guy? Anyway, if he did know I existed and decided I was a hubba hubba sexy bubba kitty-kat thing - oh my Goddess, what's wrong with my brain when he comes around?! - if he were to get on the numpty seat and ignore me, fuck, I really think I would die!


	2. I've Been On The Edge Of Love For Ages And I Just Can't Seem to Get It Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Embodiments of thunder clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite brief and simple, but the next one has more than a flush of comic promise. Look, I know I always say this, but, really, I do promise this time. There's antics with pesticide, "urban art" in the form of a highly public cock-and-balls sketch, breaking into Irish people's back garden, and, of course, why Coco Chanel bras, tampons, and Scottish Wild-Cats don't mix

"All my friends think you're really cool." He said in another text. "I showed them your blog."

  
 _Oh, Jesus fucking along on a bike with dangly bits on the handle-bars and not a bit of string for Jesus to tie his own dangling bits down_ , I thought to myself. As previously recorded, my brain goes on a holiday, I get heart palpitations and flushes, plus lightheadedness, when this boy comes around. And this is us just talking. I ended up texting that back to him; "Oh, Jesus fucking along on a bike with dangly bits on the handle-bars and not a bit of string for Jesus to tie his own dangling bits down."  
A second later he called me, and I answered in a heartbeat. I immediately had to sit down; I thought his voice gave me jelloid knickers. Nothing compared to his laugh. But, oh, yes, that voice is a voice of wonder that voice.

  
"What?" He said to me, still chuckling along. "You're so cute, but you're crazy."

  
"Oh, you've found out me most horrible secret." I replied. He laughed more.

  
"No wonder you're a good writer."

  
"Fucking oath." I grinned broadly. I'm usually immensely careful to watch my vocabulary around good looking people who I've got a massive thing for. But, he didn't mind. In fact, he laughed more. This was getting interesting by now. If he kept laughing, we were going to have a little bit of a shift up. I've always considered him the Sex/Luuurve God. But if he keeps us, he'll now be known as So-and-So the Laugh.

  
Ah, no, that's crap. If he ever gets on the numpty seat with me, he'll have to be So-and-So the Un-Laugh, and doesn't that sound stupid? Whereas if he's still known universally as Sex/Luuurve God - well, Sex/Luuurve Gods are allowed to rest their perfectly formed arse on the numpty throne - sorry, seat - every now and again.

  
I had to change that; my Dad is permanently sat in the Numpty Throne as the Numpty King nicknamed, "Hitler". Seriously, that's my Dad's nickname. "Hitler". And when he does things, it's not "Dad's doing things." It's, "Dad/Hitler is hitlering about."

  
The irony is that my Dad hates Germans with a passion brighter than the dumb bloody sun. 

  
"If you think that one is good, guess what I say -" That's how I began that sentence anyhow. If my brain hadn't snapped into gear, I would have told him about my fondness for calling people I don't like a "cunt". I love that word. "cunt". And because people get so upset by it, whereas I don't - ever - I use it all the time! My Dad calls me it sometimes - about once every six months. I take it as a compliment - all people say this, but I genuinely do. It's got no effect on me at all. Most girls usually cry when they get called it; I just think, "Oh, get some balls you weak fucks."

  
I'm not a big feminist as you can see.

  
"- nevermind, nevermind." I smiled to myself.

  
"No, what is it?" He asked.

**DREAM ENDS**

Woke up in a really bad mood. Had a enormous rant on my blog - which can still be seen. Felt a bit better after that.

  
That dream had been reasonably sweet as well.

  
Now my ribs were just hollow and I moved about like a thundercloud. 


	3. Coco Chanel Bras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once you get over me musing about my music, there's some funny stuff. A cock-and-balls erected in someone's garden with mortein pesticide, and walking into a hedge at the sight of a total hottie, plus, a note for the ladies - why you don't mix Coco Chanel bras, tampons and Scottish Wild-Cats

Lorde wrote a song called, "Ribs". I like that song. it's not my favourite song, but I like it. The desperation in it's too familiar someday. There's a plead in there, some sort of begging for hope. Sometimes it's just too familiar.

  
_That will never be enough._

  
I listen to "Anobrain" by The 1975, and nearly every single time I cry. That to me is just...it's everything I have ever loved. The emotion I feel from that is seeing your bride walk down the aisle to you, holding your first newborn child in your arms, burying the grandmother you love more than your own deceased mother, laying down on the couch at a house-party in Manchester in a leather jacket and staring into someone's eyes in explicable _okiyo_ and wonder. Me coming back home to England, going through London then Liverpool then Manchester, across Cheshire and back to Conwy and then down a little bit to Aberystwyth.

  
_And I'm so high, I think I love you._

  
I've got tears in my eyes, now, just writing this.

  
_Can you love me a little bit if you can?_

  
My long dark hair is getting long again. I go through a phase every second year or so. I've got this inexplicable urge to change myself. I always lop about eight inches off my hair, back to a flapper cut, just because I need someone new to look back at me in the mirror. Usually I've been quite sad, and I've been trying muddle through on a diet of "Antichrist", "It's Not Living If It's Not With you", "Anobrain", "Love It If We Made It", "Somebody Else", "Girls", "Love Me, "Frail State Of Mind", "Robbers: Slowed Down To 87%" {The 1975}, "Perfect Places", "The Lourve", "Ribs", and "Supercut" {Lorde}, "Take Me To Church", "Dinner & Diatribes", "Would That I", "Wasteland, Baby!" {Hozier}, with a distinct amount of Seventeen, Rita Ora, Novo Amor, and other instrumental and synth discography thrown in. It's taken a year and a half to grow back the eight inches. I have a lot of trouble with my hair falling out; it malts everywhere. I walked into my bathroom the other week...and there was enough hair there that it looked like someone had shaved it off another person's head. That's how bad the problem is. I'm not bald, or anything remotely egg-like. It just seems to be an anthropological rarity that comes about with me.   
The 1975 have written some weird songs; there's one called bloody "Milk".

  
Hozier wrote a song I quite like; "(Almost) Sweet Music". Honestly, I love that. That's such a boy thing for me. When boys create art - it's always a little bit like that. A forethought and then a little bit of an edit, but you still get it, like?

\---------------------------

I came back to haunt someone. Very cheery greeting, and then I went back later when they were out. I hitched up my skirt and climbed over their back fence with a huge bloody cotton bag. It was a right laugh trying to get over the sodding ting, but, ah-ha! Like a ninja, I sprang up and over! Come forth from such efforts, a cock-and-balls illustration inscripted on the grass of their back garden in mortein pesticide, with more pesticide tipped on their roses just behind their front wooden fence that extends out to the footpath beside the Catholic Church. I think the pesticide fumes made me slightly high, even though I had clingfilm over my nose and I was breathing in through my mouth behind a wet jersey scarf. Just you wait three days. Very nasty shock for the Irish barstards. Goddess Arianrhod, they're twats. When I was walking back to the village green where Dad said he'd pick me up, I was...I was just high. Drawing a cock-and-balls in a Irish Catholic's back garden and killing their roses in the front garden - most people wouldn't count that as a adrenaline rush, because when someone says adrenaline rush, they think of sex or partying or drugs; they think about cliff-diving and parachuting and bunjy jumping. They don't think of pint sized pagan women with huge knockers creeping about with headscarves. If either of my crushes knew what I had done, I don't think they'd be that impressed; their both a bit inclined to the goody-goody-two-shoes way of thinking. Which of course I don't suscribe to. Because it's shit. Nazism is more attractive than being a goody-goody-two-shoes is, and I'm native, pagan, and a Labour-party true-blood. If they ever found out - which they might if they read this - I'd have to put it across differently, but, hey! If they read this, well, they bloody know don't they? Maybe they'd see the funny side, because, no matter what you're morals are, deep down, it is very funny and so funny that you know what I'm on about. "Do you remember what you said?" Dad asked me as I slipped into the passenger seat, the bag with the pesticide tucked inbetween my knees. Through my head flashed the construction of the cock-and-balls illustration, and the ratio scale of what I was making there on the grass. I thought about putting on a bit of hair, but I decided against it. Beauty and grace, I am; I'll clock you into next Tuesday as well as soon as kiss you, as well.

  
Fallen in love with me yet?

  
"Yup." I replied. I was in seventh heaven. 

  
"Fucking brilliant." He smiled.

  
Got a cuddle.

  
I love my Dad.

\----------------------------

Slick bollocks on a world-champion prat! I saw a guy down the street whose the image of Xu Minghao from Seventeen in the "Call Call Call" era. Phwoar!

  
Which is the reason I walked into a hedge.

  
Honestly, to me, the hedge part isn't the problem. It's a beautiful bloody hedge that, too. it comes over the fence of a B&B by two feet and the whole thing itself - from ground to top - is twenty feet. I love hedges. My Dad loves hedges. My Nanna loves hedges. We all love hedges. I just don't bloody know if the oh-so-gorgeous one in the tight black jeans - ooh, yeah - saw me. The thing is, where my height is and how far this hedge is off the ground - as it extends over the fence, it's a square block, like a over-size Victorian sponge when you take it out of the oven - and I'm small enough that it got me directly in the face, and I believe that my feet left the ground for a minute. Or, at least, one foot did.

  
Now that I expect he'd care very much. I do wonder if he wondered about the "Oh, fuck!" the went through the air as I got a mouthful of twigs, as well as headful of them. If he did casually stick his head around the corner of the street block - which I doubt he'd do - he'd see what would be a mentally-disturbed midget in a cotton sundress hopping about, getting natural green-life out of her hair and face, and looking for the right direction so I didn't amble and prat along into a three feet deep bluestone Victoria-era gutter.  
I had trouble getting to sleep that night. Even though I don't think this guy knew anything about it, I behaved like a remarkable fucking idiot. Total prat. It was just a hedge for goodness sake!

  
I'm internationally renowned for fucking up every good thing that I get. There's chicks in Denmark who can tell you I'm a twat, and then there's blokes and more chicks in Wales that'd clock the Danes for saying I'm a twat, even though they say I've done the odd thing that comes under "trying too hard" or "not thinking things through".   
The Chinese model, Terry, for instance.

  
In a fit of passion for my artist studio and dressmaking business, I called her up and asked her to come down and model for me, even though it's impossible for her to come down from Melbourne and I have nowhere to hold her - total disaster. I realized what the fuck I had done later that night, and after have a fit on the phone to my understanding and lovely Nanna, I had to send her a big email the next morning, apologising extensively for my general twatness and wasting her time. That really gets at me, that moment of sheer stupidity.

  
She was lovely, by the way. Lovely looking thing to. Didn't want me to pay her, either.

  
Anyway, back to the writing.

\--------------------------

I had the most extroadinariy thing happen. I got invited around to someone's house. Now, this never, ever, ever, ever happens to me. Never. I'll tell you this: I've never been invited to someone's house. Ever. Joys of being home-school. But, like, seriously, no kidding. First time in living history this has happened. I nearly fainted on the bloody spot. _Jesus fucking along on a bike with dangly bits on the handle-bars and not a bit of string for Jesus to tie his own dangling bits down_ , was my first thought.

  
The second first thing I thought as well was, _do some exercise so you look trim when you go around, use a face-mask, put on some perfume, bring out a nice hat and necklace, and what the fuck are you going to wear?_

  
It was the Australian equivalent of British morning tea, but I found when I turned up that the - it was just British morning tea. What I knew. Forgive me, I know I sound like a bit of a twat but I'm a pint-sized young woman and it's the first time in living history this has ever happened to me. Of course it's quite exciting and absolutely terrifying. Just for reference, this her isn't the her I write about all of the time.

  
I think I did pretty well when I turned up. 1920's day dress, boots, sun-hat, the necklace I got for my sixteenth birthday. 

  
My family are very old-world; to us, the important birthdays are six, sixteen, twenty-one, and fifty. Eighteen...I've never thought about eighteen much. I've always been older than eighteen. I've always been old inside. I don't associate anything that I know with, well, those series of ages. 

  
She was lovely. Made my tea for me just how I liked it. She's an older lady, this friend of mine. Her garden is lovely. Towering Acorn trees and hedges and lovely British spring-garden arrangements. We talked for ages and ages and ages, when this thing suddenly appeared. It was all different shades of brown and black and charcoal grey...it was a cat the size of a Labrador. I couldn't believe it. It was a Scottish Wildcat; in 2009 there were only 400 of them left. I had heard of this thing. It's called "Ned". And for readers who don't know this, if you get called a "Ned" in Scotland, you're essentially been called a "Cunt". Ned means bad, no good, rotten to the core. A total arsehole of the highest degree. What I noticed the most as it padded along the ground towards us at a little table with a umbrella over us by the courtyard outside....it was carrying the paper ends of not one...but five Libra-brand tampons in it's mouth. 

  
"Oh, you naughty bloody thing!" She said to it. "Naughty damn thing!" She tried to tackle it and this cat is a bloody big bugger; this thing is truly the size of a fucking Labrador. And any bloody Labrador with half a cocking brain would run at the size of this thing. It behaved like a Lion!

  
"Do you need me too...?" I asked.

  
"I think it's best you go inside, dear." She told me, as this cat head-butted her in the crotch before climbing up on her, each huge paw over each of her breasts through her thin light pink jumper. I could see the tips of Ned's claws; fucking figure of a nightmare, that cat!

  
"Close the doors!" She called to me, Ned nearly pushing her over to the ground. I closed the French doors, all full of little glass panes, and watched outwards as she swore and swore and swore, and began to kick Ned, and then through the tea-pot at him. Alarmingly, Ned seemed to think it was a game. He dropped the tampons onto the grass, and tried to catch a tea-cup in his mouth as she hurled on of them at him, calling him a "brute" and a "freak" and telling him "you're a bloody menace on my life, damn you, you cursed, wretched thing!"

  
It was like a Victorian play, watching her.

  
The even worse event came about twenty minutes later once she was back inside with thoroughly messed up hair, threads pulled everywhere in her jumper from Ned's claws, and a very tired expression on her face. What was left of the crockery I cleaned up by hand gently in the sink and put it in the draining board to dry out. I followed her up to the stairs of her house, where she showed me where the bathroom was, and she got changed into a fresh shirt. As I was washing my hand, I bore sight to a sight which i shall never forget. In retaliation for it's tampon "mice" been taken away, Ned took revenge on the garment's hanging on her washing line. I screamed for her and we raced back downstairs as she was still doing up the buttons of a fresh white blouse. Ned walked into the kitchen with a lacy white bra in his mouth. The one thing I noticed the most was the gold interlocked "C's" charm in-between the bra's cups.

  
 _Ah, so the Scot-descended mademoiselle wears Mademoiselle Chanel, does she?_ I thought to myself as she actually shrieked and next thing was having a tug of war with Ned over this bra.

  
When I left, she hugged me - and she smelt so nice. She smelt like a English lady; perfume and lovely smelling washing powder, nice perfume and hair soap. She told me I was a flower for being able to cope with Ned; the last time he had pulled a stunt like this was when her Goddaughter was around. The evening had ended with the girl in tears with laddered stockings, and hey! She had got herself into a hedge too!

  
Only because Ned had herded her into there though. With the help of her traitorous pet Welsh Corgi, who has a single DNA flaw; you look at them and you think they would identify as a loaf of bread, but they instead think that everyone is their sheep, and they must protect their sheep. You take Corgi's for a walk, and they check around walls and things; just in case anything might hurt their beloved sheep.


	4. Acts Of The Sex/Luuurve God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fancy hearing about Gerda Wegener, the antics involving helium canisters and a rugby match from the Sex/Luuurve God, the art of buying flowers for someone you like/love very much, and toddlers peeing on my back steps because they'd seen their Papa do it at home on a lemon tree?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danish rapper Sivas with his song "Sidste Timer" is sooo good

There's a collective rule amongst boys; when you see your mates heading to do something stupid, illegal, prat-like, or life-threatening...you don't say a thing! You never, ever say a thing even when you can see they'll get punched, end up at a cop station, get a coke over their head, or die.

  
I don't know precisely how, but this is how it went. The Sex/Luuurve God has a helium canister in his flat, because a mate of his who was still at school six months ago doing GCSE's - his school staged a production of Macfart - sorry, Macbeth, by William Suck-me-here - sorry, Shakespeare. William Shakespeare. 

  
Quite a bit of intelligence, here, as you can see. And I think you do.

  
Anyway, some twat came up with the idea of using helium to give Macbeth's Queen the squeaky voice; as even the most effeminate lad in whole of Year 12 couldn't do a girl voice, despite been a size 8 and having long hair, they decided, "Let's use helium!"

  
As you can imagine, the Macfart - sorry, Macbeth - production was complete shambles, and, you know what? I'll write about that in the next chapter. I found out what happened. 

  
But, six months on, this helium canister was still resting quite comfortably in the Sex/Luuurve God's wardrobe. 

  
In Wales, rugby is a big thing. Muscle men, no teeth, thick skulls, good at getting the lids of jam jars and fixing car wheels, giving really nice hugs and if you feel a bit faint, they can put you and several of your friends over their shoulders. Sweet and cool and really, really rough. A bit of the mentality carried on over here in Australia. Every year, they have a have decent rugby match, and the teams players change every year. Most of them are Year 12's, and some of the players are rugby players who graduated two or three years ago. One of these players is a mate of the Sex/Luuurve God. Now, the Sex/Luuurve God is a bit on the thin side. Definitely underweight, but he carries it off gorgeously. The cheekbones and the lips on him...hello, hormones, nice to see you, my loves. His jawline...ooo. As Hozier said, "I'm in love, I'm in love with you....". And his mate is this strapping 6 foot 5, red-haired, thick-jawed, iron-muscled, thighs like Yule hams bloke with small, bear-like eyes and he's slightly on the dopey side. I don't believe in Academic sucess, but one day I held a door open for him in a café, and he seemed stunned that a pint-sized girl in a long skirt with dark hair and a Welsh accent had done this courtesy for him. And, honestly, this guy could take off the café door and throw it so far it would land through the roof of a Church in Rome. 

  
So, when the Sex/Luuurve God and Rugby walk down the street together - it's the most ultimate case of butch and bitch you have ever seen in your life. But, now introduction is done, I'll get back to the story.

  
One night to have a bit of a laugh, Sex/Luuurve God and Rugby decided to have a play around with the canister the night before the big Rugby match. Sex/Luuurve God had been sucking it out of balloons - like you're technically supposed to do if you want to stay safe while inhaling noxious gas. Just a little safety warning here, with the backing of the British Curryhouse Castration. Well, Rugby, been a bit on the thick sight, puts his mouth straight over the canister's nozzle and flicks the tab.

  
From the rush and the confined suffocation of Rugby's mouth, the canister explodes, hits him in the face breaking his nose and cutting open his left eyebrow. Rugby flies across one side of the bedroom, and the canister goes across to the other side of the room and smashes a hole in the wall. Sex/Luuurve God comes to his senses and automatically has a fit about his potentially dead friend. Rugby was nearly having a seizure on the floor, and couldn't breathe; he was extremely red in the face, apparently, and the precise colour of a Ribena grape.

  
"*Rugby's actual name, Rugby's actual name*!" Sex/Luuurve God was yelling out. "Talk to me, talk to me!"

  
Eventually, Rugby stumbles to his feet, clutching his chest. "I CAN'T BREATHE!" He screams to Sex/Luuurve God. "I THINK I'M GOANNA DIE -" And then he began to hyperventilate, each one sounding like a air-siren from the days of the Luftwaffe bombings.

  
Next day, the Rugby match comes, and Rugby still plays.

  
He breathed like a air-siren for a week. When he really did get out of breathe on the field, his teammates encouraged him onto his knees which his face close to the ground because, genuinely, the referee couldn't be heard over the "ooo-woo! ooo-woo!" of Rugby's mammoth lungs.

\-----------------------

Next door to me is a little hipster cafe shop with a attached flower nursery where the village creche is also located. Lots of little voices and little heads and sweet, tiny little shoes go past my home twice a day. I love the sight of children that little; lovely, innocent, sweet things children. No wonder Catholic priests love them.

  
Oh, what?! Come on! I'm a Pagan, I had to put a comment like that in! Stop being a twat and just continue to read on.

  
There's one little boy in particular, called Thomas. He loves "Thomas The Tank Engine". He has shirts with Thomas the Tank Engine on them, and a matching bag. Blessed Be, little boys, in all their sweetheart glory. Well, one day, his Mam and baby sister in a pram are talking to another Mam and baby-in-the-pram combo. And, what appears to have happened, Thomas buggered off on his Mam, and came through my open back gate. He must have drunk a lot of juice earlier at the creche, or whatever it is the Nuns give them to drink - lemonade with horse tranquilizer? Who knows! Date-rape in cordial? Mysteries of the Universe!

  
The end result was that I saw a little head trying to climb my clothesline, and when I came out into the garden, I stepped barefoot into a not-so-little puddle on my back step. 

  
"Oh, hello!" The day Thomas had a little hat on and spider-man sunglasses. He bounded up to me, and got two tiny handfuls of my dress. "My name is Thomas and I live with my Mummy and Daddy and baby sister Lucy in 110 Hyldon drive -"

  
All little kids do this. Tell you all of their information. 

  
"Where's your Mummy, sweetheart?" I asked him. "She might worry about you wandering off. Let's find her, shall we?"

  
Oh, I'll have to kill the bitch when she starts sooking at me, I thought to myself, holding Thomas's hand and venturing out of my back garden. We found his Mam chatting blissfully to her friend, not in the slightest bit worried about her child. Fucking typical, this day and age.

  
"I think you lost someone." I told her, with Thomas by my side. She oohed and aahed and talked to him. 

  
"What have you been up to, sneaking off on Mummy like that?" She said to him.

  
"Had a piss on my back-steps actually, but that's not matter, he's only little." I told her kindly.

  
She got the hump. "Don't you dare swear in front of my children." If she was a peacock, her feathers would have ruffled and changed colour. Her friend sort of "ooed" her into a calmer state.

  
"Aw, Thomie sees his Dad do it all the time at home on the lemon tree!" the other woman laughed, and the babies in their prams started to laugh as well, even though they were far too small and fat - living on the fat of the land, I see - to understand anything. Thomas half hid behind his Mam's leg; she had got through to him he had done something fiarly cheeky. "I like your dress." He told me, with the sweetest little smile and huge black-button eyes that were twinkling; he had two perfect dimples each side.

  
"He's a gorgeous little boy." I told the Mother, while I thought to myself, _And you're a fat ugly twat with excess pubic hair and a fucking stupid, ridiculous fringe that makes you look like King Richard the III, you utter fucking wanker. How could you not notice your little boy wandered off? Thick-headed fucking bitch!_

  
I decided Thomas must take after his Papa; only plausible option. If my Goddess appeared to me and asked me to sacrifice a human being, that bloody woman is gone!

\-------------------------

I love paintings by Einar Wegener. Particularly of the bog in Vejile, in Jutland, Denmark; I love the Winter scenes he did. I love the Winter. It's my favourite season; the ice and the snow and the torrential rain and the bitterly cold temperatures. I absolutely love it. I also think the Earth is as beautiful in the Winter as it is in the Spring, when everything blooms back to life, fresh and reborn from hibernation.

  
His wife Gerda fascinates me even more.

  
The Danish Girl is my favourite film and book, with a shared first place with Crazy Rich Asians and The Theory Of Everything and The Guernsey Literary And Potato Peel Pie Society.

  
Einar Wegener became Lili Elbe; the first transgender person in the world to receive sex-change surgery. Einar - then Lili - died from internal infection. The sex-change operation wasn't the cause. Einar - born a man - was also born with a pair of ovaries, even though he had a penis, testicles, and no breasts. His surgeon said that with tissue put over the ovaries to stimulate hormones and growth, due to the female hormones and the weaning off of male hormones, it was possible that Einar/Lili could produce eggs and therefore naturally conceive and birth a child, despite been born a man.

  
Einar/Lili died from infection caused specifically by that surgery. The film is a tender and inexplicably raw account with incredible cinematography of just what it is...to have lived their lives. For Gerda and Einar Wegener/Lily Elbe to...suffer and receive and love and live as they did. 

  
I bought one of his paintings, recently, from a very old man with a very serious cancer. He knew I loved work by the Wegener couple. There's so much for to say about these two people and their story, and Gerda as well, but there is a little painting that Einar did of Gerda. It now hangs up in my bedroom.

  
It's one of the very few material objects in my life that has moved me to tears, just the mere sight of it. Gerda was pretty, with a wide, flat face and long Edwardian hair curled and pinned up into a 1920's style chignon. It's something I treasure, and look at every night before I go to bed. When he drew Gerda, he wasn't thinking of anything more in the world apart from her. 

  
One by one, the tears go down my face.

\--------------------------

The art of buying flowers.

  
It's really hard to get decent flowers in Australia; they're either half-rotted, or it's a horrendous amount of money to get them half-rotted from a florist. Which is why flowers isn't a huge business in Australia.

  
I do what any intelligent person does; pinch them from the Botanical gardens or you go for a walk in the forest.

  
Simple.

  
I've never had flowers in my life. As in, no one has ever given me flowers.

  
But that's alright. I wish it might have been different, but if I had ever brought flowers home, my Dad would have hit the room. His nickname is Hitler after all.

  
I've never known anyone who would give me flowers, anyhow. 

  
But the woman who is the owner of Ned - with the tampon mice and the Coco Chanel bra - said she needed some flowers for a friend. Could I procure them for her?

  
Yes, I bloody well can, Missus, no problem there.

  
Flowers are lovely things, and I always make lovely bouquets.

  
The bouquet I made was constructed of deep-red tea roses, white lavender, apple blossom, a few birch tree twigs, all tied up in brown paper with brown string. I walked down to her house and was accompanied all the way by Ned. He was sitting just inside the front gate, and a pair of yellow eyes had had a good perve up my skirt and at my stockings as I hitched up my skirt to climb over the fence. I noticed he didn't have a collar or anything on; I came to ask her about that and she said it was no point putting them on Ned. She tied him up one day to the barn door, and he chewed through the rope. He's also chewed threw a lead. And, yes, that's correct. Ned has to have a lead when guests come around to the house. Because he's a prat with furry trousers. But, of course, he chewed through the bloody thing, didn't he?

  
I went around to the back of her house and knocked on the French doors.

  
"Morning!" I smiled and didn't stutter, and I held out the bouquet to her. "I hope it's good enough - I found the nicest things I could to make it up for you."

  
She smiled at me widely. "I hope you like them, then." She said to me. I went into a state of shock. I had no idea what was happening. 

  
She leant against her French doors. "You protect everyone you love." She told me, softly. The sunlight danced over her features, bring out every line and every shadow on her face, and the depth of the colour in her eyes, and the few grey hairs on her head. She had on a grey jumper, white blouse, jeans and boots. "And you don't realize how much of a effect you have on people. How can't you understand that people come to love you within minutes of knowing you?" She smiled at me tenderly. "Thank you for being my tree." She said.

\----------------------

She's been diagnosed with motor nuerone disease. And under new euthinasia laws in Victoria...she's going to go on her own terms.

  
I didn't let myself cry in her kitchen, but as I walked home, the tears started falling down my face.

  
For then, for once, it wasn't a matter of me fucking up a good thing that I had.

  
It was the good thing letting me go so I didn't have to see the good thing die.


	5. The MacFart - Sorry, MacBeth - Production

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disastrous and hilarious chaos of when you try to stage a Shakespeare production in a all boys high school and college

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You protect everyone you love. And you don't realize how much of a effect you have on people. How can't you understand that people come to love you within minutes of knowing you? Thank you for being my tree.  
> I hear that alot. In the back of my head.  
> Thank you for being my tree

_When you write, it's always people leaving or dying. The recycle of epiphany and heartbreak and letting go and moving on; and you're always haunted by every one of them._   
_Oh, darling. Why won't you...why won't you just...let me...give up and the ghost...and come and hold me. I would hold you, and you know this, all you have to do is come to me. Give up everyone else and come to me. There's enough room for you up here, just as you make room for me in your chest where I should be by that necklace you got when you were sixteen._   
_Come home to my heart. Come up here with me, into my arms._

**DREAM ENDS**

The next day I was fine. I made myself fine. I did a sketch of my crush - the other one, no the Sex/Luuurve God - and that was that. I've got a hundred other things to do; things to create and paint and write and sculpt, manipulate and talk to and love and live with. I've got this distinct feeling she - my other crush - isn't doing too well. But there's nothing I can do about that. Text her and embarrass her and I die of shame? Yeah, no thanks. Don't be afraid to love. That I'm not. But love is love. And, sometimes, secrets are best kept for the better of the world. It's just how it is. Things started to look up. I was down to my dream weight, a flat 110 pounds. And my skin was clear. And my hair was as long as it has ever been. I'm happy with that. A huge amount. Why that led me to shouting out, "STOP IN THE NAME OF PANTS!", I don't quite know.

  
It just sort of...happened. But, as I promise, time for the McFart production

  
(TO BE CONTINUED)


End file.
